


Professor Layton and the Tea Party Armistice

by a_mere_trifle



Series: Professor Layton and the Gentleman's Treason [5]
Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Character Study, Humor, Retrospective, Revisionist History, Tea, bisexual bickering, the teapot is his truest friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 02:01:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18729454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_mere_trifle/pseuds/a_mere_trifle
Summary: "What brings you to London?""Why, you, of course," said Randall. "We do get the newspaper out in Monte d'Or."Layton winced."I don't appreciate being plagiarized, Hershel," said Randall; his smile was joking but his eyes were not. "Not in this regard."





	Professor Layton and the Tea Party Armistice

**Author's Note:**

> I should probably mention that the main stories are all going to be gen. There may or may not be clearly labeled side stories that are less so. I'm still debating whether or not that's a good idea. But the main story will be gen. Honestly, with the size of the fandom, I don't want to deprive readers of a fic, or admittedly, my fic of readers. Canon like LayClaire doesn't count. Subtext... is in the eye of the beholder.  
> ...Honestly, I do find Randall/Henry/Angela to be the most acceptable interpretation of Miracle Mask. Otherwise it gets too loyal-servant-class grateful to be treated like a fellow human, and save-the-purity because heaven forbid a woman be sullied by developing feelings for anyone but her presumed dead boyfriend for a decade of her life... I'm sure there's more charitable readings, but personally I find the triad reading by far the least squicky one...

Paul had warned him to stay away from his old haunts, but Layton didn't expect it to be a problem. There were few places he was really attached to. And there were certainly enough tea shops in London that he could take his pick. So it came as a complete surprise when he walked out of an establishment named Cleary's to find his elbow suddenly grasped in a firm hand.

His first thought was an attack, but his reflexes were still dulled by years of peace-- which was just as well, because the voice that said "Hershel?" was one he was certain he knew.

"Randall!" he said, and relaxed for a moment. Then he tensed again. "What are you doing here? How on earth did you find me?"

He turned, and there he was; he'd trimmed his hair since Layton had seen him last, and looked generally far healthier. He was wearing a dark coat and a collared shirt, the top button undone.

"Magic," said Randall, with a grin. "Also luck and cunning, but mostly magic."

Layton hoped it was mostly luck, but perhaps it was to be expected that an old friend would find him easily. "That's quite astounding luck."

"My luck always has been entirely mad. If I have a guardian angel, she's a psychopathic escapee from angel prison."

Layton could hardly argue that. "What brings you to London?"

"Why, you, of course," said Randall. "We do get the newspaper out in Monte d'Or."

Layton winced. Of course. He wasn't sure whether it was good or bad luck that a society reporter and accompanying cameraman had been at Kingsmere's ball, but there was no room whatsoever for him to deny culpability. The mask alone was damning, much less the rest of his figure.

"I don't appreciate being plagiarized, Hershel," said Randall; his smile was joking but his eyes were not. "Not in this regard."

"There is an explanation," said Layton.

"I would very much love to hear it."

"By all means, but I would very much prefer not to give it in front of a tea shop."

Randall considered this. "Fair enough. Lead on, MacDuff."

Lead on. But where? A cafe, perhaps? The likelihood of eavesdroppers seemed low, but it would certainly be feasible in a public place. He could venture back to his house (but that was, last he checked, more than a little charred) or his office (which was locked and very possibly wiretapped if his enemies had any sense); there was his current domicile, but it was hardly fit for visitors. The Gressenheller library, perhaps? The public library? Both still public, and Gressenheller might well be another place they'd expect him to go...

"You're not leading very quickly."

"Where on earth does one have a conversation like this?"

"Usually one's home," said Randall. "Though I suppose that depends just how far you've gone in your copycatting. A ruined opera house or a den of evil might also suffice."

He didn't know of any ruined opera houses, nor had he a den of evil, but-- he did have a 'den' of sorts. The trouble was, Paul would be there.

"If you do have a secret hideout, now would be the time," Randall added. 

_Paul_ would be there. Layton put a hand to his forehead. He had an intense feeling of foreboding about this. But there was nothing for it. If they wanted some semblance of privacy, and if Randall wanted answers--

"All right," said Layton. "Come on."

They caught the bus at the corner; Randall raised an eyebrow at the route number. After a few stops, he turned to Layton with a frown. "You surely don't have a house in this direction. You don't actually have a den of evil, do you?"

"I most certainly do not," said Layton, "and if I did, I would not mention it on public transportation."

"Oh, come on, Hershel, it's public transportation. Everything happens on public transportation. You could talk about plotting world domination from your den of iniquity and no one would bat an eye."

"I certainly hope you don't think that's what I'm doing."

"I wouldn't think it of you, but I wouldn't think--"

"Public transportation--"

"--the other stories I've been hearing, either."

"Well, the news story laid it out fairly clearly," said Layton. "I believe there was a quote."

"It was a bit vague for me, though," said Randall. "It also implied an accomplice."

"'Accomplice' is certainly not the word I would use, particularly not on--"

"Public transportation. Hershel." Randall gripped his arm again. "I swear to any god existing, if this is Descole again, I will _murder_ the man."

Layton belatedly realised that the topic of Descole had not come up in their scattered correspondence. He'd been hesitant to relay most of his further Azran investigations, fearing it would be a sore spot, and Descole-- too many wounds had been too fresh, and somehow he'd still never caught up. He was awfully tempted to keep it that way. _Incidentally, that man who manipulated you into a widely-publicized crime spree? Evidently he's my long-lost brother. And how is the weather in Monte d'Or?_ "I can't say I like your odds of evading justice, if you continue speaking of your plans on--"

"Public transportation. Evading justice would hardly be my priority. Nor would inflicting pain. The further consequences wouldn't matter, so long as the man was dead."

Layton massaged his forehead and pulled the cord to request a stop. "Descole has nothing whatsoever to do with this, Randall."

"You're certain?"

"Entirely," said Layton. He stood and herded Randall toward the exit.

"You know the man has a talent for disguise," said Randall.

The doors opened, and Layton pushed Randall toward them. "We came to an agreement, of sorts. A detente."

"Why on earth would you trust him to keep to that?" Randall turned toward him, awaiting their next direction.

Layton wasn't sure if Randall would believe in Descole even if he did explain his reasons. "To the left. Follow me."

Randall did. Layton knew he would require more justification than that, though, and he was not the type to let things slide. "I'm working with an... old acquaintance from my university days," he said. "He admittedly has a... colourful background, but I am quite certain that he is not, in fact, Jean Descole."

"Just some other criminal," said Randall, reading (accurately enough) between the lines. "Hershel, I am not filled with confidence."

Yes, he was. He always had been. That was his problem, and his great attraction. "I'll explain everything," said Layton. "But we will very much need to sit down. And we will need tea." And possibly a stiffer drink, though a gentleman did not rely on such crutches.

"I can see that it might be a long story," said Randall.

They were into the warehouses now; Layton picked up the pace. Fortunately, Randall left him in peace, looking curiously at their surroundings, and they reached the side door without further incident. Layton opened it, and flicked the hidden switch of the alarm system. The noise of metal against metal, and a faint irritated grumbling, confirmed that Layton had not encountered a sudden stroke of good fortune, and Paul was, in fact, here. He could see the man as they walked forward, half buried in the engine of his flying machine. "Did you get your stupid--" he began, and suddenly stopped, pulling his head back out to fix them both with an alarmed and hostile glare. 

He'd probably noticed the second set of footsteps, Layton thought, and ran a hand through his hair as Randall continued forward, fixing the aircraft, then its owner, with a skeptical eye. "Does this thing actually fly? How extraordinary."

"Layton," Paul said, with an affectation of extreme calm, "who the hell is this?"

Layton sighed. "Paul, this is Randall Ascot, an old friend of mine. Randall, this is--"

"Don Paolo," Paul pre-emptively corrected, with a growl.

Randall raised an eyebrow. "Don of what, exactly?"

"A rather wretched little estate in Italia," said Paul. "I'd suggest never visiting."

"Right, of course you are." Randall smiled, in a kindly, charitable way that somehow left no room for doubt of his complete disbelief.

"Layton," said Paul, "why the hell is he here?"

"He followed me home," Layton said drily, and headed directly for the kettle.

"Naturally," said Paul, "but you could have led him on a false trail, or told him to sod off, or shot him--"

Randall raised an eyebrow. "You have the most remarkable new friends, Hershel."

"I do indeed," Layton sighed. The dratted thing would take a few minutes now to boil...

"A stun gun would have sufficed... I've had great success with chloroform, have I shown you where I keep it?"

"You have--" Layton stopped himself. Of course he did. But it was hardly a topic he wanted to introduce to this conversation. 

"There's a particular formulation that--"

"With the most fascinating hobbies," said Randall, leaning on the counter.

"Says the archaeologist," Paul snorted.

Randall raised an eyebrow. "How did you know?"

"All his bloody friends are archaeologists," Paul growled. "Plus there's a certain something in the eyes. And usually the pockets."

Randall raised his eyebrows. "And that would be?"

" _Gentlemen_ ," Layton interrupted, in vain hope that the word would awaken them to their better natures, possibly in vain hope that either had one. "Randall wanted to know what was happening. I saw no reason not to inform him."

"I would've tailed him anyway," Randall admitted with noticeable pride. "You can't blame Hershel."

"Watch me," Paul growled.

"And Randall, Paul is currently a colleague of mine. Please show him some amount of respect."

Paul rolled his eyes. "You're _too_ kind."

"I do have some concerns, Hershel," said Randall. "Wasn't he the one who chased you down with the ferris wheel?"

"The things have holes a mile wide!"

"As does your--"

The kettle whistled sharply. The kettle, Layton thought, was probably his truest friend in this room.

" _Story_ ," Randall finished primly.

Layton took three mugs down from the cabinet and eyed the square bottle that was beside them. Regrettably, the brand being unfamiliar, he was not certain if it was _literally_ window cleaner or not. It was possible he should lay in a stock of brandy. Perhaps some good red wine. Or at least familiarize himself with the options, possibly through extensive testing.

"I'm going to kill him and hide the body," said Paul.

"You're hardly proving yourself any more trustworthy. Hershel, really, of course I'm concerned, you're consorting with criminals, you're crashing dinner parties with the Mask of Order, this is hardly what I intended when I let you--"

"Oh, no, no no," said Paul. "The Mask of _what_? Layton, for the love of God, I tell you to pick a disguise and you pick some bloody relic that probably has your name written all--"

"What kind of nonsense are you putting him up to that _requires_ a dis--"

"---what the _hell_ were you thin--"

"I was _thinking_ ," said Layton, summoning the voice that cut through lecture halls and crime scenes and courtrooms, "that they already know exactly who I am; and if they catch me, the last thing I will have to worry about is them bothering to prove it. Because I very much doubt that the case would ever make it to a trial. Are you both quite finished?"

There was a moment of blessed silence. "I hadn't been aware you'd realised that," Paul muttered, in an almost regretful fashion.

"Hershel," said Randall, "what on earth is going on?" 

Layton set a French press by one chair, put a teapot and a tin of biscuits in the centre of the table, and put another kettle of water on the stove. They were going to have to have it all out, all of it, and he would need all the fortification he could get. He poured a cup of tea, took a biscuit, and sat. 

"I've got a few questions of my own, and this is my goddamned warehouse you're hosting your tea party in," said Paul, taking the seat nearest the coffee. "Why does this 'friend' of yours not _know_ what's going on?"

"Randall was... indisposed... during my university days," said Layton. 

Paul raised an eyebrow.

"Farming, in Craggy Dale," said Randall, with surprising good humour. He poured a cup of tea, and dunked a biscuit in without a speck of self-consciousness. Layton had always envied him that quality.

"Why the devil would anyone go to Craggy Dale?"

"I was swept away by youthful foolishness," said Randall, still with an easy smile. "Also a river."

"You haven't asked what else I might keep with the chloroform," said Paul.

"Let me tell it, Hershel," said Randall. "I know it doesn't bring back good memories for you."

"You hardly had a better time of it."

"Oh, I don't know about that." Now that smile had turned a little bitter. But Layton knew he was going to have to retread many less than cherished memories today, so he turned to his tea, ceding the floor. 

"Once upon a time, there was a boy who had everything," said Randall, "so of course he wanted more. He adored archaeology and wanted to make a name for himself. And also to impress his girlfriend's parents. So he took his best friend and dragged him out to unexplored Azran ruins, there to seek fortune and glory."

"I would hardly call it _dragging_ ," Layton protested. "I was young and foolish myself."

"Wouldn't you?" Randall raised an eyebrow. "I played on your ambitions and your friendship, saving my most heartfelt plea for the moment I knew you were serious about turning back. Did you think that happenstance? I suppose you're also wondering how I could ever think that someone might have taken you in."

"He's got a point," said Paul, tipping his coffee mug at him.

Layton sighed, and took another sip of tea. He had hoped that they might stop fighting, but had not stopped to wonder what might happen if they did. The idea of these two joining forces was growing to be an alarming one. Fortunately, it still didn't seem excessively probable.

"Of course, they left the girlfriend behind with promises of their safe return. It wasn't as if she had heard any such assurances before." Randall grimaced. "At any rate, adventure they sought, and adventure they found. Caves and caves of puzzles and mazes and angry robot sentinels. It was all terribly exciting. But then, at the last-- disaster. The boy was lost, and so was the Azran key he had chanced upon... the Mask of Miracles."

" _You_ ," said Paul.

Layton looked at him, startled. Paul put down his coffee cup, leaning forward over the table to glare more effectively. "Monte d'Or. All that utter nonsense. That was _you_."

"You're familiar with the incident? Well, that simplifies things considerably." Randall took a sip of tea.

"You-- hang on, you _were_ Mask Fop and not Boa Fop, is that right?"

Randall sputtered.

"The Masked Gentleman and Jean Descole, Paul," said Layton, rubbing his forehead.

"Boa Fop he is to me and Boa Fop he shall remain," Paul snarled. Dear god, they must have met each other; there was no other explanation for such rancor. Layton was dreadfully concerned at what on earth he could possibly have done to the other man, and not at all sure which he meant by the "he" and which the "other".

Randall tilted his head. "Boa Fop. I like that. It's certainly one of the more polite names I've heard for the bastard."

Layton sighed, directing chagrined thoughts his brother's way. _Dear... however I should address you. You will be most gratified to learn that you have, despite your absence, fulfilled what I have oft heard is one of the most sacred traditional duties of the elder brother, in becoming a ceaseless plague upon my life._ But that was uncharitable. Though it would explain the majority of their interactions.

"So how much of the rest do you know?" said Randall, reaching for another biscuit. 

"Well, I'm familiar with the part where you donned a hat and mask and terrorized the town for some god damned reason."

"Not my finest moments," said Randall. "Which is why I was so concerned to hear Hershel was following in my footsteps."

"What the hell was the reason, anyway?" asked Paul. "I know it was all Boa Fop's fault somehow, because of course it was."

Randall sighed. "I had lost my memories in the fall," he said. "Boa Fop sent me letters that jogged my memory."

"Oh, Randall, don't you start, too..."

"I saw that a man I had considered a dear friend was in possession of my money, my property, and my girlfriend," said Randall. "And doing quite a lot better with it than I ever would have, I must say. With Boa Fop's assistance, I drew the obvious conclusion."

Layton took a long sip of his tea, resigning himself to the inevitable.

"So, I set out to 'reclaim' what was 'mine'."

"By terrorizing a ridiculous casino town in a mask," said Paul.

"Well, we were trying to unlock the ancient Azran Vault of--"

"Christ, no, don't tell me, I stopped caring," Paul said hurriedly. 

Layton took a long drink of tea and realized he had drained the cup. He immediately poured himself another.

Randall threw Layton a sidelong glance. "Just what kind of philistine are you working with here?"

"One who has been burned by the ramshackle edifice of thievery, confabulation, and superstition you people pass off as a 'science'," Paul shot back.

"Dear god, how dare you--"

"We are having enough conversations without including that one," Layton interrupted. "There were reasons for the mask beyond disguise. We're moving on."

Paul and Randall glared at each other, but kept their mouths shut, rather tightly. Layton took a biscuit and ate it in two bites.

"At any rate," said Randall, prickly, "yes, I sought revenge. As I recall, you should not be unduly shocked by such petty motivations."

"What the hell's so petty about revenge?" Paul took a sip of coffee. "He did end up taking your money and your girlfriend, didn't he?"

"Only to safeguard them," said Layton. "Henry was a terribly misunderstood person."

"To..." Paul shot a suspicious glare at Layton, then at Randall. "From _what_?"

"My parents were getting older," said Randall. "And Angela would have been forced to marry someone else."

"First of all, who the hell is still forcing their children to marry in this day and age; and second, why should he be any better than--"

"Regrettably, the rich do cling to rather arcane traditions," said Layton.

"Hang on," said Paul. "If she was rich, and you were richer, what the hell did you have to prove to her parents, anyway?"

Randall looked away.

"Money wasn't the only consideration," said Layton. "There were personality and moral character to be considered..." Though, now he thought about it, given their family's history, a reckless archaeological expedition would hardly be the sort of thing to cement his reputation in their eyes. Certainly, they'd been cool toward Randall; they hadn't approved of his hobbies, and they thought him a callow youth, which he certainly hadn't disproven by...

The pieces came together; one, two, three. That last grand romantic argument that had kept Layton from turning back. It had never been one of Randall's true motivations at all.

"As I mentioned," said Randall, looking at his tea mug, "while I love you dearly, Hershel, I remain concerned about the possibility of you being taken in."

Layton's tea was gone again. He put another pot on to brew.

"Well, this is a red-letter day," Paul muttered. 

_And it's only going to get better,_ Layton thought. "At any rate," he said, "that's all water under the bridge." He cursed his choice of metaphor the moment he said it. 

Paul fixed him with a disbelieving stare. He had reason to. It wasn't possible he hadn't recognised the name. The water might pass under the bridge, but the river always remained.

"And all's well that ends well," said Randall. He poured himself a second cup of tea.

"How are Angela and Henry, incidentally?" asked Layton. He was honestly curious, and wanted badly to hear of a happy ending.

"Oh, quite well," said Randall, smiling. "They send their regards."

"You did tell them you were leaving?"

"If I didn't, they'd have half the city after me by now." Randall's laugh wasn't entirely amused. "But Angela's not overly fond of London, and Henry has a great deal of work to do managing the city, so..."

"He still does that?" asked Paul.

"I could hardly evict the man from his job," said Randall. "The city would fall apart."

"And you're still friends," said Paul, suspiciously.

Layton laughed. "Oh, certainly. I don't think Randall and Angela have even let him move out of the house, have you?"

"He's the one who built it," said Randall.

"The hell?" said Paul. "How on earth could you _live_ with a man who--" Paul stopped, his eyes widening. Slowly, he pointed a finger at Randall.

Randall lifted a closed fist, shaking it.

Paul kept pointing, leaning forward.

Randall drew a finger across his throat.

Layton had no idea why their childish bickering had suddenly turned mute, but he found that, on the whole, he rather preferred it.

Paul flopped back in his chair, barking out a laugh. "Never mind _that_ , then..."

"I suppose you've never had many in the way of true friendships," said Layton, then winced. It was almost certainly true, but he shouldn't _say_ so.

"No," said Paul, "regrettably, I cannot say I have formed those sorts of bonds."

"Shocking," Randall sniped.

"Well, you must admit they're rather extraordinary," said Paul, arching an eyebrow at Randall. 

"I'd never deny it," said Randall. "Though I've found that fact tends to only be truly appreciated by those who are at least conversant with such feelings."

Paul glared at him. "I should think it would be sensible enough to the casual observer."

"And yet, I've found it isn't," said Randall. "Clearly, despite your looks and personality, you've managed to form _some_ sort of attachment in the past."

Layton was well aware that he was witnessing an argument in code. What alarmed him was that he was somehow too weary to want to break it. "Paul, you wanted an introduction. Are you quite satisfied, now?"

"Oh, quite," said Paul. Randall glared at him. 

"However," said Randall, "whatever his other qualities, the man does ask good questions. I say we get back to his first one. How do I not know what's going on?"

Layton closed his eyes. "Our correspondence was only rekindled recently," he said, "and recent events have given me both a great deal to write to you about and little time to do it in. The present was rich enough. I saw no need to delve into the past."

"Archaeologist," Paul coughed.

"I should have thought you would approve of any failure to live up to that title."

"When did I say I didn't?"

"So obviously something happened," said Randall. "University, you said. I never asked about your academic career, other than the obvious."

And Layton hadn't wanted to bring it up. He knew he had the career Randall had always dreamed of. He'd done it deliberately, in memoriam. He'd never devoted much thought to what would happen if his dreams came true and Randall returned. He'd always imagined him turning up in glory, with a wild story and fabulous riches, he supposed. What could he have to be jealous of then? Henry and Angela had done a far better job of safeguarding his dreams.

"Layton," said Paul, "you don't want to hear _me_ tell it, do you?"

Layton winced. No, he didn't think he did.

"Once upon a time, there was a blithering idiot--"

"While I was at university," said Layton, "I met a woman."

Randall's eyes went wide. "You never said!"

"Yes, unfortunately, which is why we are having this conversation." Layton sighed. Getting irritable wouldn't help matters.

"Well, I'm glad to--" Randall stopped himself. "No, or I'd have met her, wouldn't I?" 

Certainly he would. Probably she would have been with him in Monte d'Or. Certainly they would have made time to visit after. _Facts_ , Layton told himself, not counterfactuals. "She was a scientist. She was part of an ill-advised project on time travel."

Randall frowned. "Gressenheller funded a project on time travel?"

"They had a persuasive grant writer," Paul growled.

"Regrettably, certain standards of rigor were ignored," said Layton. "Due to economic pressures from the project's financial backers, the trial run was performed too early." He was reminded of red writing on a long-ago paper: _The passive voice is to be avoided._ But he didn't want to assign an agent to this, couldn't. "Mistakes had been made in the calculations, and the experiment failed, catastrophically. There was severe damage to the entire city block; there were few survivors. She was not among them."

Layton took a long, slow drink of tea, his eyes closed. He did not particularly want to see Randall's expression. To forestall any possibility of him saying something, which could be equally disastrous, he continued. "Naturally, I demanded answers. Answers were not forthcoming. The previously mentioned financial and political interests were rather keen on hushing the matter up."

"With billy-clubs," Paul clarified. Layton found, despite Paul's earlier threat, that he was grateful for the assistance.

"Good god." Randall leaned forward. "What did you do?"

"There was nothing I could do," said Layton, ignoring the stifled noise Paul made. "I went on with my life. They went on with theirs. One of the scientists--"

"--their grantwriter--"

"--was elected prime minister. I thought the matter over."

"Others disagreed," said Paul. Layton wondered if he were referring to Clive or to himself.

"Others became independently wealthy and expressed their disagreement in grand and creative manners," said Layton. "You read of the terrorist attack, yes?"

"By that Dove boy?" Randall leaned back in his chair. "How the devil was that one connected?"

"Clive's parents had been killed in the incident," explained Layton. "He sought to draw attention to it in an undeniable matter. Regrettably, his methodology involved creating too much devastation to be ignored."

"Kids these days," said Paul drily, and took a swig of coffee.

"Well, that he certainly did," said Randall. "But I certainly haven't heard anything about the rest of this."

"The devastation proved surprisingly ignorable," Layton sighed, "with the proper misdirection. Why change a strategy that works?"

"And this time you're going to stop them?" Randall raised an eyebrow, quirking a smile. Layton should have guessed he wouldn't really disapprove.

"Well, they haven't exactly given me a choice." Layton finished his cup of tea, and immediately poured another. "I'd hardly started to look into the matter when they were at it again."

"With petrol, this time."

"Somehow, I suspect they've got the impression that I shan't let the matter drop this time," said Layton. "As such, I have no reason on earth not to oblige them."

"I see." Randall nodded, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "But how's Don Paolo here come into it?"

"He was also rather fond of Claire," said Layton, "and has developed quite an interest in seeing the perpetrators of this cover-up brought to justice."

"I see," said Randall, a grin slowly spreading across his face as he looked at Paul.

Paul shook his head violently.

Randall scoffed, reaching for another biscuit.

Paul made a rather complicated gesture that Layton interpreted as strangling someone with a garotte. 

For whatever reasons, Randall laughed. "All right," he said, "I think we've made our peace, then, haven't we?"

"More like our war," growled Paul.

"An armistice, at least?" Layton suggested.

"No, no, I'm quite satisfied," said Randall. "I thought he might be another Descole, tempting you into something rash."

"The possibility had occurred to me," said Layton.

Paul raised an eyebrow.

"You could've hired the latest thugs yourself. Ransacked the office. Set the fire. It could have been a plot, to galvanize me into action."

"What makes you think he didn't?"

"Bill Hawks is still Prime Minister," said Layton, simply. "The investigation is still being quashed; the conspiracy is undeniably ongoing. Paul works alone, he has no desire to revisit Gressenheller, and he wouldn't have set fire to the house with Flora still inside."

"Who-- oh, that girl from that robot village you mentioned," said Randall. "Is she all right?" 

"Yes, but the stakes have been made quite clear."

"Indeed." Randall stroked his chin thoughtfully. "What's the plan, then?"

"Publicly name and shame his backers," said Layton. "For whatever crimes we can prove that they will actually choose to feel ashamed of. Until their support network erodes and their confederacy is a shambles."

"Hence the thin disguise." Randall nodded. "As I imagine the main conspiracy would be quite difficult to prove."

"We're working on it," grumbled Paul. "But it hardly matters, as long as we get them for something."

"Excellent!" Randall leaned forward. "So. How can I help?"

Layton froze. Something about this idea sparked cold dread in him, and he hadn't the faintest notion why.

"That's it, I'm getting the chloroform," said Paul, standing.

"You are not," said Randall, rolling his eyes. "Though I'd quite like to see you try."

"The Masked Gentleman thinks I can't take him."

"The small gremlin states obvious facts. Hershel--"

"Forget chloroform, where's my goddamn strychnine--"

"Come on, Hershel." Randall laid a hand over Layton's. Layton's pulse was spiking, and he still wasn't sure why. "You have to let me help."

"I'm not sure that would be wise," said Layton.

"It's the very least I can do, Hershel! After all I've done--"

"After all you've done, I'd much rather you did me the courtesy of staying with your family in Monte d'Or where it's safe." That was it, or part of it. He'd seen Randall dangling over a crevasse or two too many to want to see the man in the line of fire again. Part of it, but not all...?

"Come on, Hershel," said Randall. "With what you're working against, you need all the help you can get."

"You could make pamphlets," Layton suggested. "Monte d'Or has quite the tourist base; you could garner international support quite easily."

Randall looked completely unimpressed. "And that would help you how?"

"Public awareness is certainly--"

"--unlikely to avail, yes. You need action, and covert action at that. And I could help you."

Well, of course he could-- couldn't he? Layton was usually good at following the logical leaps of his intuition, but as of yet he couldn't fathom why it was sounding so dire a warning. "Randall--"

"Oh, for God's sake." Paul stormed over to Randall's side of the table. "This is pathetic. Let me take over."

"And I suppose you have some better reason not to let me help you." Randall raised a sardonic eyebrow.

"Yes," said Paul. "You're a moron."

"Paul!"

"I most certainly am not--"

"Oh, I'm sure you did quite well in school, and you're quite clever at your archaeology; but there's a number of ways to be smart, and there are too many you fail at too spectacularly to possibly take the sort of role you're looking for."

"Name one," Randall bit out.

"You're a bloody thrillseeker," said Paul. "You seek out pressure deliberately, and then you fold under it like a cheap umbrella. Oh, don't look at me like that. I was in Monte d'Or for the mask business. It would've taken a blind and deaf man to miss that denouement. There was a bloody great crevasse, for god's sake. How the devil did you manage to fall into that thing, anyway? Was it as deliberate as it looked?"

Layton threw a startled glance at Paul, trying to determine if he was being hyperbolic. Given Randall's statements at the time, he'd more than half suspected, half feared, that such had been the case. The truth, or a quick stab at a weak point?

"It was _not_ ," said Randall. His expression was firm, but Layton still wasn't quite sure if he should believe him.

"Sure, have it your way if you like. I've got plenty of others." Paul ticked off another count on his fingers. "You don't ask questions. Of course, neither does this one, but I'm stuck with him."

"I just bet you--"

"You shut your mouth. You terrorized an entire bloody town because of Boa Fop."

"It looked like--"

Paul shook his head. "I don't care what he told you. He handed you a plan and you just went along with it. Did you even ask what was in it for him?"

"Of course I--"

"Did you actually believe it?"

"He told me that--"

"It doesn't matter what he told you!"

"Then why do you keep asking?!"

"It's a rhetorical question, you numbskull! Whatever questions you asked, they clearly weren't the right ones!"

"That in no way follows from the evidence you've--"

"Craggy Dale," said Paul. "You stayed in a farming village for, what-- ten years? Less? More? With no memories, in the last place you could ever hope to retrieve them. You didn't strike out to discover your past. You didn't seek medical attention. You didn't even put an advert in the bloody paper, did you? If your rich parents and girlfriend didn't see it, library boy here would have. For ten years. Craggy Bloody Dale. Farming. _You_. Why?"

That... was quite a good question. Layton looked at Randall, concerned. Randall had gone quiet; it didn't look like he was intending to provide an answer.

Paul scoffed. "Well, I'm certainly not having you on until you can answer that one."

"I don't see that it's any of your business," said Randall.

"And it wouldn't be, if you weren't proposing to join me in a bloody coup d'etat that I'd just as soon not spill blood over. Particularly my own. I'm no martyr, Ascot. I'm not interested in self-sacrifice. And I'm not interested in some idiot stuffing things up by sacrificing himself on my behalf."

"I wouldn't--"

"Oh, don't give me that nonsense. Come on now. Why are you really wanting to join up with us? Do you want justice? Do you want to help your friend? Or are you just bored off your arse?"

"Paul," said Layton softly, pained.

"You know I'm right," said Paul, eyes fixed on Randall. And the worst part was, Layton did. He'd never have phrased it in any remotely similar way, but that was the fear that had taken him: Randall wasn't ready, was doing this for the wrong reasons, was too inclined to rush headlong into bad situations, had demons that he hadn't yet faced. It felt an awful betrayal even to think it, but Paul was, essentially, correct.

"Paul..."

"You know I'm right," said Paul, "and so does he."

Randall was staring at the floor. "I may have... any number of regrets," he said, "but I've grown. I'm a wiser, a better person now. Or at least I want to be."

"Then I'd suggest you start by acting like it," said Paul.

Randall sighed forlornly, running a hand through his hair. "It would have been a grand adventure," he said.

"No," Layton said, "I very much fear it wouldn't. Adventures aren't quite like what we used to think they would be. I've discovered that many times over by now."

"No," said Randall, "but a man can dream."

"Though if you'd like to make a monetary donation," Paul added, "I'd be more than happy to name an attack helicopter after--"

"Paul!"

But Randall laughed. "I might have to take you up on that," he said. "But I guess I ought to get back to my family."

"You wouldn't want Angela and Henry to worry," Layton quietly agreed.

"And I can hardly blame them, after all of it, but it's... a little stifling." Randall sighed, and clasped Layton's hand. "Look. I won't do anything dangerous or stupid. Seriously, this time. But we have money, influence, and power. If there is a single thing that any of us can do for you, Hershel, say the word and it's yours. Or don't say the word, and Angela and Henry will figure it out and you'll damned well get it anyway, in a gift box with a delightful little bow. The choice is yours."

"I'll keep it in mind," Layton promised.

"And if he doesn't, I will," Paul promised.

"Well, then I can rest assured." Randall laughed, and clapped Paul on the back. "Just be a better partner than I was," he said quietly.

"I intend to," said Paul. Odd, Layton thought; there was surprisingly little scorn or mockery in his tone.

Randall sighed. "Well, then, I'd best be off," he said. "It's a long journey home."

"I could walk you to the stop," Layton offered.

"No, no, you've things to do. And you've got to lie low. I shall indulge my youthful high spirits in devising utterly unnecessary ways to foil any clandestine pursuit." 

"Are you quite certain?"

"I am perfectly capable of getting myself to the station, Hershel. I can promise you I've plenty of pocket-money for cab fare. And I've an errand or two to run before I go home. I'd best get to it if I want to catch the last train." Randall headed for the door, then turned to wave. "We hope to see you soon, Hershel. Good luck. Keep me informed, and give the bastards what for, eh?"

"I shall," said Layton. "Thank you, Randall. Give my regards to Angela, and Henry. And take care." 

"You too," said Randall. "Don't start copying me too closely, hmm?"

And then he was gone. Layton took a deep breath, letting it out in a long sigh.

"You should talk to those friends of yours," said Paul. "They're probably keeping a close watch on the idiot, which is completely understandable, but can't be helping at all."

"I might inquire," said Layton. It wasn't exactly his business, strictly speaking, but... the man did seem more than a little stifled. And it certainly seemed like they had issues that they needed to address. It was a little painful to know that he wasn't really close enough to be a part of that, anymore.

"What in the devil could possibly have been going on in that wretched little town?" Paul stared at the door, brows furrowed.

"Craggy Dale?"

"That or the one you came from. It's got to be _one_ or the other."

Layton took umbrage at Paul's characterisation of his hometown, but also took his meaning. While phrased in perhaps the most offensive way possible, it did seem that the only possibilities were that something had been keeping Randall in Craggy Dale... or that something in his past had been driving him from home. Layton thought he'd have known about the latter, but would he, really? As a newcomer in town, he'd hardly been inclined to make waves. Randall and his coterie had taken him in, and he'd never have thought to question them after that. What was he missing? What had he missed?

And was there anything he could do about it anymore? With everything that was going on, and with the distance now between them, he had little choice but to leave it to Angela. It hurt, but then again, she was surely quite capable of investigating it herself.

"Well. Thank god that's over." Paul grabbed his coffee mug and headed back toward his machine.

Layton couldn't help but be a little relieved himself. It had been rather a trying morning, and he would be just as happy to put it behind him.

Although... there was still one more thing that was bothering him. "...'I intend to'?" 

"At least I stopped myself from saying it wouldn't be difficult," Paul retorted. "I can bloody promise you that if I fall into a crevasse, I will be doing everything in my power to help you drag me up. And I am never setting foot in Craggy Sodding Dale."

That wasn't quite an answer to Layton's real question, but it was close enough that all he could do was shake his head. "Paul, Paul, Paul. What the devil am I to do with you?"

Paul looked as if he was considering an answer, then shook his head and grabbed his toolbox. "Next time you throw a tea party in what I would like to remind you is _my_ warehouse, have the decency to bring some goddamn sandwiches."

"I shall," said Layton. "Thank you for your understanding."

"What bloody understanding? That was idiotic and barely endurable, and could easily have been avoided."

And yet he'd endured it, and listened well enough to have insights on the circumstances that Layton himself had still only been feeling at. Granted, such things were often easier to discern from further away, but... "Thank you, regardless."

"...Just don't you even think of making a habit of it," said Paul. "Did you get the files on the Bakewell claims yet?"

"That was to be today's project."

"Well, you'd best get on it, then. I don't want to infiltrate the factory without an idea of what I'm looking for. What the hell do I know about chickens?"

"A fair request. I'll be back soon." Layton took up his case and headed for the door.

Before he reached it, though, he paused, looking back at Paul, who was already buried again in his machinery. _Just be a better partner than I was._

Layton had considered this a partnership of necessity rather than suitability, but he was starting to wonder if there was actually a chance of it.

-


End file.
